


Beyond Constellations

by lucius_complex



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 12:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucius_complex/pseuds/lucius_complex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Under the longest snowfall in memory Harry finally comes of age, between cycles of ice and adversity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

 

 

_All are not taken; there are left behind_

_Living_ _Belovèd_ _s, tender looks to bring_

_And make the daylight still a happy thing_

Part One

You’ve never been through a blizzard that lasted this long before.

Huddled by yourself in as many layers of sweater you could squeeze into, out of the way of impatient footsteps and raised voices, you sit on the ledge in an unobtrusive corner of the second floor windows, waiting for the electricity and heating to come back on.

It has been eight months since your ragged band of fighters came to appropriate these storage facilities, five months since Dean’s reconnaissance discovered one of Voldermort’s lairs in another warehouse across the field from yours, and a good ten days before you managed to wash the taste of irony from your mouth.

You think it is ludicrous; the things war reduces people to, watching and waiting; waiting and starving. You can only hope that your opponents endure a similar fate: commercial buildings had a tendency to be drafty and retain their heat poorly. Only a small arsenal of spells work on such large spaces and require so much maintenance the effort was likely to exhaust them as much as your own side.

These last few days the thunder has been so bad that the trees in the area stand like blackened pencils, each surrounded by a halo of broken limbs. For all its prickling dryness the air is heavy and weighs oppressively upon you. All that lies before you is an endless expanse of white. It is just as well that you can’t see _them,_ the Death Eaters. The blizzard obscures everything, sometimes raining icy hail for days as if trying to obliterate the earth.

Perhaps the heavens too, protest this senseless, incessant war.

Like a chess board, the open space stretches out between you and them, part scrubby field and part hillock, with the enemy warehouse located in an abrupt dip in the vertiginous landscape, protecting it from all but airborne attacks.

And so the wait draws exhaustingly, inexorably on. For days upon weeks you idle, fraying at the hems, enduring.

The flying teams train in the accompanying silo. You are forbidden to join them, but sometimes you visit them anyways, to give moral support. Once upon a time you used to be jealous of them, especially in the angry months after your rejection. These days you wish you could take the words back, but you know better than to think about the past.

You feel a familiar presence beside you as Ron sidles up to sit beside you. He holds out one of several pieces of flattened sandwich. ‘Sardine again. You want?’

‘Thanks,’ you say as you take the proffered lunch from his hands. Ron’s hands leave grimy stains on the wilted bread. You know him by his hands now, because the truth is, neither of you have looked at each other in a while, except in an abstract sort of way across the table at a briefing, or an arm clasped in passing.

‘I’m so sick of the smell of fish,’ Ron says conversationally to the sandwich. ‘Can you remember the last time you had something that didn’t come out of a can?’

‘I like it when its corned beef.’ You chew mechanically. There’s something about food, especially sparse food that reminds you to be grateful to be alive. To chew and swallow is to choose to live. To eat at a time like this, meal after meal, is its own war. It has its own triumphant song.

You wonder aloud if Voldermort inhabits the buildings beyond you; if he ever goes out to enjoy the view. This must be what his idea of what a seasonable apocalypse should look like. Blithe, pithy observations like this are what keeps you going, something tossed out for everybody to laugh at. Reminiscence is drawn out; encouraged, as long as it wasn’t about the dead.

Sometimes however the dead become irresistible, often for the most mundane of reasons.

‘I still miss Cho’s fried luncheon meat.’ Ron admits, his voice coloured by guilt. Cho had been one of their more reliable sources of supplies, smuggling food, flash powder and unnamed oriental ingredients out through Chinatown. There’s been no news her since her disappearance four months ago.

 You help your oldest friend out by commiserating. ‘Me too. Stir fried. Diced up with onions and potatoes.’

‘Naw, with fried egg’s the way to go. Fresh farm eggs, now that’s something we’ve not seen in an age- maybe a night time reconnaissance, eh? Operation Chicken Egg. ’

‘In this kind of snow?’ you snort. ‘Unless you get them into bed with you, the chickens are probably all dead by now.’

‘Worth a look, don’t you think? Maybe if they froze to death they’d still be fresh.’ Ron smiled at the possibilities, a parade of chicken dishes likely making its way past him.

‘And then McG will find you frozen on the doorstep tomorrow morning and give you egg on your face.’

‘Blast this snow,’ your best friend says mournfully. ‘At this rate we’ll soon be living on cardboard sandwiches.’  

Your eyes get pulled relentlessly back to the window, tracing out lines of sky and snow. ‘Guess mother nature’s feeling _real_ thorough this year.’

‘I swear she’s got the same sense of humour as Snakeface. Probably on his side.’

‘His side’s probably snowed in as well,’ you point out. ‘The storm yesterday buried us up to the first floor, and they’re on even lower grounds than us.’

‘Oh,’ Ron’s face brightens considerably at the thought. ‘Well maybe she’s on our side then.’

Together you watch the nearby buildings get swallowed up by the snow. The hills melt away, joining the sky.

‘I hope that fat ugly snake froze to death.’

‘I hope they _ate_ that fat ugly snake.’

You both laugh at this, and despite the perpetual cold and ever-present hole between you where Hermione used to be, it almost feels nice.

*

You and everybody else have ceased to talk about the lost ones long ago. There would be time enough to think about them, once the war was over and you knew for sure how many had died. For now however, the people you’d lost do not exist. You never met them, nor shared their lives. You never watched them die.

Besides, any eulogy made would have been snatched away by the blizzard and the tears would simply freeze on your cheeks. Tomorrow, another would fall; and nobody would have the strength to do it all over again.

It seems more democratic to delay.

At least this way when you finally get a chance to remember the lost ones, there’ll still be something left of yourself to give. So you hoard them, all your sorrows; and pour them into a deep and patient well you’ve covered up for more decent times.

Perhaps for spring.

*

Over the course of the war you’ve begun to develop a theory that the fallen die and join the stars. It’s an idea you appropriated from some obscure mythology, Greek definitely; but also others. You’ve shared this once with Ron, the pair of you perched on the roof of the silo on one of those rare stretches of clear night sky. By and by, assigning names of fallen friends to random stars became a common pastime. Sometimes your other class mates join in. Parvati especially haunted the night sky nearly as often as you, although for vastly different reasons. Understandably, she shares little of herself with you; the war put Padma into the cold ground and Lavender into the arms of Fenrir Greyback; and you both _know_ that in many, many ways, this war is about you as much as it is about Voldermort.

There is no point in denying these things anymore, so you don’t.

Parvati has no reason to ever share her thoughts with you, though sometimes she murmurs a greeting at Ron in remembrance of Lavender. It is not even embarrassing anymore.

You made her smile once, on the silo roof, after a particularly ghastly briefing had confirmed Colin’s death, and you’d taken Dennis to the roof to point out a flashing star, small and white hot, and told him you’ve never seen something flash so many times, so it must be Colin’s camera. 

You will never tell Ron that you’ve picked up a star for him, bright red and burning with a steady, reliable light, just a nose higher than Bellatrix on the constellation of Orion, as if keeping her at bay. You’ll never tell him, but this preparation helps you cope.

*

Some days it gets hard, not to miss the louder ones who took it upon themselves to lighten the mood with their constant ribbing. Days like this for instance, when the lull between storms produce a pin-drop silence that makes you aware of the adrenaline in your veins that hasn’t had a chance to abate in weeks. Since your life is _so very precious_ , you cannot risk being seen or injured unless there was a fighting chance of meeting Voldermort face to face. Not being allowed out, you watch the fifth and sixth year students kick off on their brooms or scurry through the bushes in teams of fours.

Instead, you sit in on all of the Order meetings, picking fights with Hooch whenever she hands you another stupid assignment whilst allowing students much younger to go off into the howling night. You vet the supply sheets, assign minor chores, assist Angelina with organizing the student recognizance teams, and generally twiddle time away, trying not to go crazy.

Sometimes you manage to persuade Ron to skive off with you, banking on the fact that no one would have the heart to scold a Weasley member for blowing off the rules. Arthur’s final sacrifice had, after all, secured months of supplies that was only in recent days starting to dwindle.

Then on one particularly frigid evening, after twenty-eight months of silence, Snape walks into an Order meeting as if he had never left, and takes his seat. You can hear the pin-drop silence, the collective inhalation and the surging anger that suddenly creeps into the room like a slow-rising tidal wave.

It is clear he is prepared for the ensuing hostility, unmoved by McGonagall spitting across the table with angry menace, the cries of _traitor_ and _murdering bastard_ circling him like crows.

‘Why have you come here?’ McGonagall finally asks when she recovers. ‘Surely you know your life would be forfeit.’

In answer Snape holds out two delicate vials of silvery threads. ‘My memories. And…’

‘Albus,’ the Headmistress says, almost choking on the name. You had no idea until now how closely her grief sat to the surface, patiently waiting for a chance to ripple out and sink the facade of strength and authority around her. It shocks you, this vulnerability, so much so that you can barely look at her, how old and desperate she looks as her hands reach out to clutch the vials.

You cannot bear to see this pitiable sight.

You realise now you have always made her up to be more than human; an institution, a receptacle of faith that can never break. _You_ , of all people, with your unique circumstances, who knew by taste what it feels like to carry the burden of faith. You, who should have known better.

How could you have been so cruel?

You can barely look at yourself, or the other members of the Order, so you train your burning eyes on Snape, who seems to be suddenly unprepared, and noisily clears his throat.

 ‘I bottled them immediately, per.. _his_ instructions. I have never seen them myself.’

Dedalus Diggle spoke up. ‘Of course it’s a trap. Argh, we’ll have to throw him into prison until we get a scrying bowl and who knows how long that’d take, huh?’

‘There is a spell,’ Snape mummers to the table, his eyes hooded and impenetrable. ‘Albus must have mentioned it to you, Minerva. The spell he invented during his… traveling years. The receptacle relives his memories, projected for all to see with the aid of incense. ‘

You see the headmistress’s eyes widen at this revelation. ‘I know this spell. You will do this, for all to see?’

The man nodded sharply, firelight flickering off the tangled nest of his hair. ‘I will.’

It is decided. They send you to fetch some incense from the stores, and you carry out this command running so fast that you feel as if your heart will burst from the exertion.

Snape’s eyes rise to meet you as you approach the table, a glittering, banked flame that raises the hair on the back of your arms as you approach. For some reason the sight of him sitting there reminds you of Sirius when you first met him, tense and defiant in the face of judgement.

You light the incense and help clear the chairs whilst McGonagall casts a host of detecting spells upon Snape’s vials of memories to confirm their non-violate state.

As the room begins to fog, you finally see the self-doubt creeping into Snape’s face.

You will-’ the man breaks off and licks his lips. ‘Exercise restraint, when you see fit.’

You do not understand the words, but it appears McGonagall does, because she seems to simultaneously thaw and become more emotional.

‘If you did not kill him, then you shall have nothing to fear.’

Snape leans back with a nod, seeming to surrender to his fate. He eyes fluttered briefly. ‘The truth is; I do not know, Minerva. I have not remembered in a long while.’

You barely understand what this means, but it is clear that Snape is mentally preparing to wear his memories again. You are forced so swallow and cough as the smoke thickens, expanding like a cloud and turning opaque. People cry out, choking, and for a moment you are certain it’s a trick: Snape has deceived you all.

At the height of this claustrophobia you suddenly hear Snape himself gasp, either in fear or pain, and the smoke clears, coalescing into a surreal, choppy, memory before you. Suddenly you can see Snape again, the blood drained from his face, and it is clear that the man had severely underestimated the nature of his own confession; was as unprepared to experience these memories as you.

In turn you experience the dubious honour of watching your potions master break down as he relives his memories and crumple in a way you’d never imagine any man would in front of an audience, much less _this_ man. You are here, the only student in a room of adults coming forward to hold down the trashing, grieving professor as he begs for apology from the dead, as he tears his robes and smash his forehead against the floor and confess his failures. You see Minerva cry with him, the two professors rocking like children on the floor as they clung to each other, their once rigid facades ripped away by the storm. Each giving the other person permission to grieve at last.

Only then do you acknowledge your age, all the naive fallacies of your youth. Only then do you realise how young you really are, and how protected. As the other adults hastily wipe their own tears away and leave the room, you file out obediently behind them, throat constricted with things unsaid.

You spend the night staring at the unmoving constellations above, picking out Lepus and the bright sparkle of the Sirius star within the Canis Major; and you think about the lines people draw around themselves, the price they pay to keep them there.

You spend a moment to give thanks for Snape’s overconfidence, the fact that it probably saved his life. Would he have showed up, had he known what he would be forced to reveal? Probably not.

When the two professors emerge together the next day, they carry twin expressions of calm indifference and look as though nothing had happened, and you wonder if they had taken comfort of a different kind from each over the night. The idea seems preposterous, but you notice that they remain discretely close since then; two wounded people constantly looking over their shoulders to see if the other is still visible.

The idea is preposterous, but it lingers in your mind, and you find yourself falling quiet whenever Snape shows up in subsequent visits to resume giving his reports. He rarely lingers beyond the hour, and you have been forbidden to speak of his presence and your new insights. It chaffs at you, this knowledge that outside of a handful of adults and yourself the world still thinks of Snape as the man who had betrayed them all. It’s disquieting, to remember that you have on occasion been vilified for the same. As you watch him deliver his reports in that slow, deliberated drawl that you once mistook for mocking, you wonder if perhaps the years you’ve spent hating this man was due of an unfounded fear of turning into him; because the anger and guilt you carry is similar. _So_ similar.

His words could have been yours. The blood on his hands, yours. The relentless sacrifice and enduring silence, yours.

As for Snape himself, the man seems indifferent to the newfound respect accorded to him, pressed with more urgent concerns than the tawdry subject of his reputation. He’s eyes are perpetually sunken in pits of tar. His is voice sometimes hoarse, as if he had been shouting for days.

Sometimes he looks at you, a full gaze. There is more in that look, in terms of acknowledgement than most of the adults who surround you will favour you with. You see that he notices everything. You realise he sees you.

You realise, with some surprise, that you are grateful.

 

*

 

 _And now, each night I count the stars._ __  
And each night I get the same number.  
And when they will not come to be counted,   
I count the holes they leave.

Since Snape’s sudden exoneration from The Order, Minerva and Snape seem to have developed the same sort of relationship that you and Ron have- supportive, patient and revolving around the absence of a person once dear to both. You have not expected this, and struggle with the notion. You do not expect them to be friends. Reluctant allies yes, but not bosom buddies.

You hope that this is _all_ they are to each other. The idea of anything more...

It’s simply too disturbing to be borne.

Oftentimes the headmistress lets you into her private study to arrange her shelves or copy letters, and it is coming into one of these sessions that you see Snape there, slouched over the study table as McGonagall shreds and gingerly peels out strips of black sleeve from the man to reveal an arm riddled with burnt, swollen flesh. The bile rises to the back of your throat when you see the words ‘ **LOYALTY’** and **‘MUDBLOOD’** traced out almost lazily on his arms with the tip of a wand.

 ‘ _Oh_ Severus.’

‘Leave it be, Minerva,’ Snape grunts. To you he merely says, ‘Make yourself useful, boy, and bring us some tea.’

You goggle for a brief moment at man and open your mouth, then just as quickly close it again. You busy yourself with the rattle of tea paraphernalia, trying to ignore Snape’s slightly challenging, inquisitive gaze and the tingling sensation of old, familiar scars on the back of your hand.

**_ I must not tell lies. _ **

**LOYALTY**

**MUDBLOOD**

 ‘That _monster_ ,’ the headmistress’ horror echoes what you feel.

Snape merely shrugs, as if his arms are covered with crayon and not blackened flesh. ‘With all this inclement weather one is hardly surprised, and a caged tiger is still a tiger.’

McGonagall ‘s expression darkens at these dismissive words. ‘At least let me heal-‘

‘Something for the pain, that is all,’ Snape says firmly. ‘It’s dangerous to leave an unmarked canvas around.’

‘Severus. You surely cannot expect me to allow you to endure a moment more of this - _this depravity.’_

‘I can, and so shall you.’

The Scotswoman purses her lips and looks away, clearly struggling with her temper.

‘Don’t fuss, Minerva.’

Snape’s eyes go back to staring at the ceiling, something you’ve noticed he does only when he’s completely relaxed. It warms you to be included in it, however abstractly.

‘We may yet get lucky; Lucius has been filling his ears with stories of causes better served abroad than holed-up here, in some decrepit, non-descript barracks. Perhaps the Dark Lord will be swayed on the image of countless puissant purebloods flocking to be converted, with alliances and galleons to pledge.’

You realise you had chortled out loud when the two adults suddenly turn to gaze at you.

‘The tea,’ you splutter at them, pointing at the tray. Interestingly, it is McGonagall who scowls and Snape who looks bemused at your encroachment.

‘Let’s hope for all our sake that the snake bites,’ you mutter as you deposit mugs of steaming tea on the table.

‘Indeed,’ Snape’s mouth quirks.

You break into a grin, but suddenly the man tenses beside you, as if your proximity affronts him. ‘Why is this one hanging around so much lately?’

You are outraged at the casual reference of your presence in the room, as if you were a homeless, useless puppy. It hits too close to the truth.

 ‘I’m not just _hanging around_. I’m helping out the Headmistress.’

‘If you wish to make use of yourself, learn to pinpoint constructive tasks that exploit your skillset,’ the man sermonizes; ‘unless of course, the pinnacle of your abilities happens to lie in discharging house-elf duties. ’

‘I do what I’m told,’ you argue hotly.

‘Then why don’t you go and jump off a bridge? Go on, do what you’re told!’

Looking at Snape, there are many things you want to say. Hurtful things. The man is as proud as Merlin, but he is as mortal as they come, as prone to hurt and far-ranging mistakes.

**LOYALTY**

  **MUDBLOOD**

**_ I must not tell lies. _ **

Instead you ask him, in as mild a tone as can be managed under the circumstance, ‘What do you think I should do?’

You are gratified at the mystified expression that briefly crosses your professor’s features before they melt back into his usual sneer.

‘Use your brain. No doubt that will be a novel enough challenge for you.’

‘Severus,’ the headmistress chides, ‘Harry was only trying to help.’

As you clear the doorway, the strain of Snape’s aggravated tenor drifts over. ‘They grow up so fast, Minerva, and then one day they stand on crossroads and make _stupid_ _decisions_ that nobody can s-‘

Grimly, you bang the door shut behind you.

 

*

Stung by the jibes and worried about the possibility of Snape being right, damn his beady all-seeing eyes, you stop wasting your energy nosing around areas you’re not wanted and approach Poppy with the request to help her in her daily duties. Ron comes along reluctantly; and then with a great deal of complaining when Poppy sets you both to changing the sheets and Vanishing and scrubbing her chamber pots. After a week of watching you like a hawk, she dismisses the clearly inept Ron into Kitchen Duties where he’s clearly happier, and inexplicably begins to teach you how to sew.

You find out why, when the next wave of injured fighters comes in. Quickly, you learn to put your own thoughts aside. You learn to intuit how much pressure to apply, where to suture when hindered by clothing or blood. How to massage the crick out of your neck and the ache out of your fingers at the end of each day.

Along the way you learn to appreciate silence - to take the silence that comes from fear and sadness and change it into the silence that comes from comfort and recovery. You feel a strange sort of self-achievement in doing this quiet, unobtrusive work, which you overhear two professors talking about one day and finally identify as personal growth. The thought of being whispered about does not embarrass you. Instead, you slip down to the kitchens, and Ron is so happy to see you that he steals a can of luncheon meat and the two of you climb up to the silo roof to pick out Orion and attempt to outdo each other imaginatively by turning the heavenly bodies into outrageous representations of female anatomy.

At one point Ron licks one finger and sticks it out, closing one eye as if angling his digit to block out a star.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

Ron moves his finger up and down with sudden earnestness. ‘I’m rubbing Draco out. It really spoils the view.’

After you finish laughing you lie down and join him, fingers furiously wriggling against the night sky.

*

 

Potions, you notice very quickly, run out fast in the wards, so one day you volunteer to help make the medical potions whenever the ingredient supplies are in favour. Poppy, after narrowing her eyes suspiciously and checking you for fever, approaches Snape at the next Order meeting for help.

You wait nervously, feeling like a first year whilst the flint-eyed professor takes a long, hard look at you before curtly nodding his assent. It is decided that you have two hours to memorize as many potions as you can. You both excuse yourselves from the rest of the meeting and walk quickly to the tiny makeshift potions room at the basement.

The stores are dismal, with little in the way of fresh ingredients or working apparatus. Between you, concise catalogues are made of the sparse handful of potions that can be attempted on such trifling yields: three types of potions and two tinctures, and you realise with dismay that even with a sparing hand and diluted measurements, your efforts will hardly be able to produce half a dozen bottles of each.

The alcohol for the tincture was sour, more vinegar than ethanol. You sigh and place the cracked rubber stopper back.

‘What now?’

Snape rubs the bridge of his nose as if he has a headache. ‘I shall find a way to get you the ingredients you lack. Everything must be properly utilized, every root, stem, and leaf. I will not tolerate wasted ingredients from a failure to pay attention. Is that clear?’

‘As ice,’ you reply, and he raises an eyebrow at you, as if daring you to mock him. When you simply look at him with all the surface calm you can muster but don’t feel, Snape turns away with a grunt.

‘You’ll need to clean and upkeep the place as well.’

You sniff. ‘As if that’d be a problem after half a year of House-Elf 101.’

You might have imagined it, but you think you managed to make Snape smile.

 

*

 _I was a maiden in this versicolor plain._  
            I watched it change.  
Withstood that change, the infidelities  
of light, the solar interval, the shift of time,  
                        the shift from farm to town.  
I had a man that pressed me down  
into the soil. I was that man. I was that town.

 

Between tearing your hair out at Potions and getting finger cramps sewing back split skin at the Infirmary, you barely have time to think about the developments outside of your own small world. You’ve stopped bothering to attend the Order meetings; it’s not like they need you anyways. In fact, you’re beginning to doubt that they ever wanted you there in the first place.

It leaves a surreal taste in your mouth, but you feel more important doing this now. At least you can see results, and the inhabitants at the infirmary have learnt that you can be an _absolute_ terror when they waste, spoil or play hooky with your precious medicines.

This new reputation pleases you much, _much_ more than you care to admit.

Sometimes Snape slips down after his reports to check on you. You wonder if he notices your absence at the meetings but he never remarks on it, so probably not. Today he brought an offering that had you practically splitting your face open with your grin.

Five-finger grass. The main ingredient in Blood Replenishing Potions.

‘You’re my hero,’ you murmur sotto voce.

‘Go to hell,’ the man replies almost pleasantly as he casually sharpens a spare knife as if it were a pencil. You spend the next hour chopping in silence. This utter engrossment allows you to appreciate for the first time the delicacy of potions and all its myriad, complex requirements – seasonal, personal and technical, offering a momentary glimpse as to why the enigmatic man before you has devoted his life to it.

You can read the expressionless face better now; see the humour leaking like moisture from a cool glass. You wonder about the sort of internal universe Snape possesses that requires he keeps himself so tightly contained; and this leads you to look at him a lot more after that. He catches you at times, but aside from raising an eyebrow, does nothing.

This reticence is fine, as you in turn aren’t ready to reveal just how much you’ve begin to admire him – that you found him powerful, private and courageous. That you have come to think how he could be alluring when he smiles. That somewhere along the line, the memory of his duel against three powerful colleagues has morphed from the insidious attack of a traitor to a heroic act of courage and nobility.

In fact, your personal opinions have strayed so far from their original that nowadays you have to actively fight against the impulse to smile at the man. A part of you wonders if this is what hero-worship is.

Your ego is not particularly happy with this turn of events, and moreover Snape is probably beginning to find your over-bright reception of him slightly deranged. But you endure his suspicions because you’re happy.

The sight of the greasy bat makes you _happy._

You reason that sooner or later, this endemic lack of common sense will surely end.

*

Two days later you are surprised to bump into Snape not at the lab, but in the infirmary; followed by a very grim McGonagall. She deposits him on a chair, his face as black as a thundercloud.

You warily approach the pair, palms twitching for your wand. ‘Poppy is off-shift at the moment, headmistress. What can I do to help?’

 _‘This man_ , is suffering from surface wounds on his back inflicted by _Greyback_ , and his shoulder was dislocated. Twice,’ the headmistress stresses. 

‘And I’ve _told_ you that I’ve already _put it back_. Twice.’

‘Nevertheless! If that diseased werewolf has passed anything to you-‘

‘I’ll disinfect the wounds and give him a Skele-Gro,’ you promise her.

‘A brew that I taught you to make, _boy_ ,’ he snaps, turning his ire on you.

‘Be as that may, Severus, you will submit to this one thing. If your charge tries to leave, Harry,’ the headmistress turns and say to you with great emphasis, ‘you have my permission to _Stun_ him.’

‘Er,’ you say eloquently to her back as she stalks out the room, skirts swishing angrily. Helplessly, you turn to the man simmering beside you.

‘Well? What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?’ Snape barks.

‘For you to take off your shirt,’ you challenge back.

Dark, scornful eyes pierce you, and for a full second, it looked like you are _really_ going to have to _Stun_ him. Finally Snape makes an ungracious shrug and begins to undo the buttons on his shirt with his left hand.

You turn away, to hide the sudden embarrassment you feel. You’ve seen men’s torsos, hundreds of them, but then you’ve never met anyone who was as fastidiously covered-up as Snape; and the notion of touching, of-

Bugger it all, this is simply a line of thought you refuse to follow.

You fetch your emergency kit and join Snape. As you bend over him to examine the thick scratches on his back, you can’t help but remember how not so long ago you would have railed about the injustice of it all, championed some sort of idiotic response that would likely put more lives on the line. By chance you meet his eyes and the expression you see there informs you that you were both thinking the same thing.

‘I’m not like that anymore,’ you say in a low voice.

‘I can see that.’ He says with the same enigmatic quirk of lips. For such a thin mouth, they prove remarkably expressive.

‘You’re much nicer these days as well,’ you add, your voice leaning _just_ on this side of offensive so that it’s not too apparent how true you think it is.

You might have imagined the growl that came out of the man’s lips in response. Surely no grown man would do that; but then, this is _Snape._

‘ _Nice_ is for other people, Potter. I only concern myself with _good_.’

‘Hmm. Now show me great and quit _fidgeting.’_

‘I think you forget,’ the man sneers, ‘who’s the professor.’

‘And I think you forget; who has the _needle.’_

Snape falls silent after that and allows you to minister to him without complaint. When the man closes his eyes you can see the full mark of exhaustion on his face; black streaks beneath his eyes and cheekbones that look like a child had used his face for a finger painting canvass with a dark crayon.

You help reset the dislocated shoulder with as little pain as possible. Snape simply grits his teeth together and endures. He refuses the Skele-Gro because he knows you only have three bottles left, but agrees ungraciously to take half a measure of hellebore syrup.

If Cho was still around, you could have asked her for ground shark cartilage to encourage the labrum to stabilize, but she isn’t.

And you know by now that she’s never coming back.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

Part 2

 

 _We swim to God_  
because we’ve been misled, the way we  
find Cassiopeia and bears and fish living  
in the infinite sky. But stars have no  
names and picture nothing and point  
to nothing and are only brilliant, bright,  
and we were never meant to suffer  
at the hands of light.

On the fifth day of the Advent, a day filled with blood and pain as the injured trickle into your infirmary from Voldermort’s surprise attack, you and Poppy answer an urgent summons to McGonagall’s chambers and find Draco Malfoy on the floor.

Or rather, you see what’s left of him; parts of Malfoy are oozing out before you as you stare. Something must have exploded right in front of him; you are sure half of the burns on his lower torso are at least third degree, and judging from the impact on his neck and face, was now probably blind to boot. His shoes are charcoal; the likelihood of his feet remaining intact highly unlikely.

You awkwardly stand there as Snape hovers over his former student casting opioid spells, his robes covered with blood that you pray doesn’t belong to the people whose lives you’re attempting to save upstairs.

‘Why didn’t you take him back to.. _your_ people?’

‘I could not Apparate that far,’ he confesses in an exhausted voice. ‘Where is the Headmistress?’

You stare at Snape, his sunken frame and blue lips. ‘Surely you don’t expect us to save him.’

‘Not you,’ was all the reply Snape clearly has breath for. _‘Her.’_

Your eyes follow his finger to the dismayed face of Poppy, as McGonagall comes striding into the room with Molly Weasley. 

‘Merlin help us,’ Mrs. Weasley say as she covers her eyes for several moments before looking again.

‘Severus,’ the headmistress says in a breath that sounds like she wants something very badly from him. She does not sound anything like a Headmistress, much less a leader in charge of a war effort. You can’t help but wonder, post Dumbledore, how much of this fight is left entirely to hope and blind chance.

‘I cannot take him anywhere else,’ Snape says in a low voice. ‘Nobody must know.’

You barely withhold from wringing your hands like an old maid; shifting from foot to foot as Poppy turns to you with instructions.

‘Fetch the potions you made, Harry. All of them.’

For all your newfound patience and humility you cannot bear to accept such an instruction at face value. _‘All?’_

Poppy nods grimly. ‘He will need everything we have, and more.’

You can feel your face turning to stone. ‘But we haven’t the ingredients to make a new batch once you-‘

Snape loses his temper at you. ‘For _once_ in your life just do as you’re told, boy!’

‘I will, when you tell me why the fuck you can’t _just take him back with you,’_ you yell back. ‘There are stasis spells for that sort of thing, and you know it.’

Snape’s shoulders slump in defeat. ‘I cannot. The Dark Lord will see no point in.. wasting valuable resources.‘

‘There is no point wasting valuable resources _here_ as well. As youbloody well know.’ You point out furiously.

‘Draco is still a student. That makes him one of ours.’

‘The people _here_ need it more. _Our_ people.’ You could weep for this man, for his blind and stubborn faith.

Snape ignores you, turning his attention at his colleagues instead. ‘Minerva, I’ve never before asked anything of you-’

‘Don’t be absurd, Severus. We will… we will do what we can.’

You look at Minerva in disbelief and betrayal. ‘Snape and his Slytherin favouritism I understand, but you?’

‘Harry-‘ Poppy’s voice is sharp, but you hardly hear it. You can scarcely understand why these people are so thick.

‘No! I think I speak for the voiceless students here,, when I ask where do you get off deciding that _this_ person, who has next to no chance of making it, get access to something that are meant for our own _dying_?’ You dig in your heels even as you find your voice cracking like ice across the surface of a lake. ‘Perhaps Hermione might have lasted a few more days if these potions had been on hand when she was still- around. Perhaps Cho wouldn’t have taken so many risks and finally gotten caught. Who’s to say who’s going to come back tomorrow and really need those potions? What are you going to tell me if tomorrow _it’s Ron_ , and you’ve used them all up for _a Death Eater?’_

‘We would do-‘

 _‘_ Oh, stop lying to me, Poppy. You’d scoop up the evidence and throw it away.’

‘It’s called honour, Harry. MY _Hippocratic oath-‘_

‘Enough of this integrity bullshit,’ Snape finally snarls. ‘Here’s the truth, Potter, we outrank you. Now run to the infirmary and bring down the supplies that you wouldn’t have had a chance in hell of making if _I hadn’t helped you!’_

Furiously wiping your tears, you turn tail and run out of the room.

*

The day after the skirmish, the universe shows you how little your opinions matter in the grand scheme of things by saddling you with Draco Malfoy’s recovery. Coincidently, his care requires more tedious physical housekeeping than actual mediwizarding, and Poppy is kept busy with the stronger, more subtle spell work that is required for the delicacy of surgeries and poison extraction.

You as usual, get to deal with the dredges, and Draco after all is the scummiest thing in your acquaintance, so you get to nurse the little shit back to heath whilst secretly hoping he dies.

Except that you fully intend to nurse your hatred as well

You stomp around and slam doors whenever Poppy or Minerva are around, but during the quiet moments even you have to admit that nobody deserves this kind of suffering. What little remaining skin still hanging on your wretched charge is stretched or wrinkled in horrifying splotches of purple or brown. Both eyes are swollen shut so even the lashes are not visible, and you can find no way of telling if Draco would still retain the use of his sight. There is a great deal of blistering.

Even after you’ve all but mummified him in gauze, the sight is a grizzly one.

Poppy insists, as punishment you’re sure, that now is the time to learn how to attach a nasogastric feeding tube and UCD, an experience that terrifies and disgusts you. Minerva comes up to speak to Draco when he is awake. You can hear him moan as she murmurs beyond the curtains: thick, incoherent noises through swollen tongue and blistered lips. It is a difficult and wrenching noise to be subjected to, day and night, and you find that even with your level of hatred one can only watch the endless suffering of another for so long without pity taking root in your heart.

Over the days you wash and steep torn strips of gauze in calamine and powdered turmeric and lay them across his face, arms, chest and legs.

After four days when the swelling allows him to open his eyes - thankfully intact - you start to clean him with spells, but you also finish by carefully squeezing water over the drying purple flesh; gentle trickles to sooth the slow-forming scabs. Draco mutters feverishly when you do this; nothing you understand, but you know it comforts him.

Sometimes whilst leaning over him to change the strips you blow at the remaining fringe of white-blond hair that lays on his forehead, to distract him from the pain.

Still, the remorse hangs heavy on you, remembering the night on the silo roof rubbing away at the Draco constellation; laughing about how the Slytherin shouldn’t exist. Those sick, absurd memories would creep upon you, and you’d wonder if all your wishes were coming home to roost, to teach you a lesson.

The thought leaves you so shaken with guilt you have to walk it off; rattle through the corridors until you find an empty room where you can _breathe,_ bent over and wheezing as you wait for your racing heart to stop.

Exhaling you say aloud to the empty room; ‘I don’t hate Draco. ’

‘I know that,’ a velvet voice whispers suddenly from the shadows, making you jump.

‘Fuck, Snape, you took five years out of me.’

‘Indeed? How careless of you to let go of it so easily,’ the man drawls as he emerges from the curtains he has been standing against. You cannot help but marvel at his skill; had Snape not moved, you would have been completely oblivious.

‘What are you doing here?’

You watch the sharp brows draw together as if Snape is taken aback by the bluntness of your question. Dark eyes fix themselves on you briefly before turning back to the window, the movement bizarrely graceful and rigid at the same time.

‘In order to wear a mask well, sometimes one must take it off, if only for a minute.’

His cryptic answer makes you aware of a frisson of excitement within your chest, and you forget your own difficulties. Are you about to see the man’s true face? Does he trust you so, to willingly reveal so much?

You join him at the window. ‘Do you ever lose yourself, with so many opposing roles to play?’

‘Consistently,’ Snape admits with candidness that shocks you to the roots of your hair. ‘But then, what is _self?_ ’

You can’t answer this, but then you know he doesn’t expect a reply. For long moments you stand beside this darkly enigmatic man with his thoughts lost in the snow, and marvel at this opportunity and show of trust.

And perhaps, you will admit, also admire the view.

Severus Snape is a striking man. Beautiful even, the way a mountain cliff is beautiful. Standing there against the snow, he becomes a contrast of monochromes; a Dostoyevskian portrait; something simultaneously profound and melancholic to witness.

‘You don’t just grow older and know the answers, do you? Despite all appearances, and, um… expectations to the contrary.’

‘No,’ Snape acknowledges softly. ‘You don’t.’

After a moment the man stirs restlessly beside you. ‘I should be going.’

You realise with a jolt that you don’t want that, now that you’ve just gotten to know him.

You don’t want him to go, so you blurt out-

‘Snape… do you still think I’m hopelessly stupid? Even now?’

You’d give much to be able to identify the expression on his face as he turns to you, resting one hip on the window sill.

‘Fishing for compliments, are we?’

‘As if _you’d_ be my first choice for the hundred meter race for praise.’ you huff. 

‘Hmmm. I do not think you unintelligent,’ the man’s tone is almost rueful, and for some reason it makes you want to break into a smile. ‘And I do not.. dislike you. Much.’

 _‘Much?’_ A note of outrage creeps into your voice.

‘That is a given,’ he says with the barest hint of smile.

‘You’re one parsimonious bastard,’ you inform him generously.

Your companion inclines his head. ‘Sad but true.’  

You realise you cannot see him as a teacher anymore; an older person out of bounds standing across a chasm of formality. Somehow, and with his permission, this man has made you a colleague - this man who is so withdrawn and so mysterious that, without the mask of his anger he seems almost mythological; a dark horse likely to slip away, carried by a jealous wind.

It is like seeing thestrals again for the first time.

You are not only grateful, you are-

You are-

From someplace far away Snape frowns at you, and says ‘Potter?’

Your eyes fly open, the world shifts and-

‘Potter? What’s the matter, boy?’

You’re _doomed_.

The realization settles upon you, gentle as a butterfly. One that will bring with it unforeseen storms, you know.

And then you realise you are well and truly _fucked._  

 

*

_I wish I could remember that first day_

_First hour, first moment of you meeting me,_

_If bright of dim the season it might be_

_Summer or Winter for aught I can say;_

_So unrecorded did it slip away_

_So blind was I to see and to forsee,_

_So dull to mark the budding of my tree_

 

 

There’s nothing to do now, except hide away in the infirmary and deny it ever happened, so this is exactly where you spend the next few days, staring into thin air and blinking abstractly as Poppy throws up her hands and shouts at you for mixing up her medicines.

On the upside, Draco can recognise you now.

As you chatter away, his eyes follow you, unnervingly fixed on your movements if you are the North Star in his new world. Draco’s eyes do not seem to be questioning, or suspicious, or dismayed. Rather they reach out; asking for connection; and you remember how once many years ago you had refused.

Today you are able to stand away from it all and ask yourself the _cost_ of that refusal from so long ago: what could have been avoided, or perhaps diluted, if either of you had not been so quick to draw a line.

You find yourself meeting his eyes more and more frequently. Returning his gaze, feeling the softening of your expressions, the gradual compassion that melts away the anger from your eyes and the anguish from his.

Draco’s eyes seek you out every day and this time, you find that you cannot refuse.

*

Time slips away. In return for your compassion and your care, Draco gives you the gift of second chances. And you in turn find yourself opening to feelings of friendship and affection.

Despite your best efforts, you watch the colour drain from your patient’s face. You want to weep sometimes, when you change the dressing on his chest. You triple-ward the windows against the wind and renew the warming charms every few hours. There is nothing else you can do. In your spare time you sit beside the bed and watch the unceasing snowfall, gentle but inexorable.

Like loneliness. Like death.

You care. You are honoured to care. And one day you wake up to find that you love.

Snape finds you one night, crying into the bandages you had been slicing up for use the following day. He stands beside your chair and puts an arm around you, and you sink your head willingly into the side of his greatcoat, his waist, and bawl as if your heart would break.

Snape is kind enough to stay silent and still as you dribble tears and snot upon his person, until you are finally done and he hands you a handkerchief.

‘Did you have an argument with Poppy?’

‘No.’

He waits, patient as the hour.

You suck in a deep breath. Might as well spit it out now. ‘You were right about Draco.’

 _‘I see,_ ’ he says softly, and you look up to see him touched. His lips are parted, as if in wonder. It makes you look away.

‘Harry.’

It is the first time he calls you by your given name. You glance up to suddenly see your ex-professor with one knee on the floor, gazing at you with solemn intensity.

You blanch. Snape’s voice is uncharacteristically gentle.

‘Harry, Minerva and myself, we both agree…’

Moved by an unnamed impulse you grab both his hands. Snape’s expression grows alarmed, but he allows you this encroachment upon his person.

‘Would you allow me to bring Draco’s parents to you? The headmistress and I both feel that we should let you decide, without due influence or… consequence. Think on it.’

‘You want me to lie to everyone about bringing Death Eaters into our sanctuary,’ you say in a low voice.

‘I am… well aware of what I ask of you,‘ Snape confesses, looking troubled. ‘You must know that whatever your decision, we will respect it. I w-‘

‘Severus,’ you cut him off, and Snape looks momentarily confused.

‘Yes?’

‘I want to call you _Severus_ from now on.’

‘As you wish,’ the potions master says politely, and a moment later adds with a lot more reserve; ‘it would be my pleasure.’

‘And something else, _Severus._ ’ You hear yourself say as you watch your hands reach for his face; dreamlike, as if they are separate appendages. The man tenses away, but it is too late; your cold fingers brush the sides of his face, surprisingly warm; trace the bristle of his five o’clock shadow.

‘Boy-’ Snape’s voice is hoarse, flickering. ‘What are you _doing?’_

‘I don’t know,’ you confess, yet these hands that surely do not belong to you continue to stroke the harsh planes of the face that is now so tantalisingly close to yours. Snape has turned to stone under your touch; only his dark eyes quiver, his brows etched together as if in pain, and as you slip a finger between his lips he makes a sort of - _noise_ \- a breathy sort of noise, _there_ , that goes straight into your loins, your deepest bone, and sets it on fire.

It compels you to drop your head and cover his mouth with your own.

Snape allows you to taste him. You find him surprisingly easy to kiss. The insides of Snape’s mouth is not warm: it is wet, tasting of smoke, cider and some blend of oriental tea. The sound that comes out of his throat as his lips part makes you bold, delirious with fever and wonder.

You say his name and kiss him again, and Severus makes another, more violent sound and suddenly becomes aggressive, pushing himself up to haul you from your chair. Long fingers latch onto the back of your neck, slide down your spine, trace almost painful circles onto your hipbones. Urgency has you both squabbling for control, your fingers digging into each other’s tunics, gripping, twisting, and on one occasion ripping out buttons. As Snape does not seem to care, neither do you.

You bite his lips and rut against him and scratch the sides of his neck like you’re Greyback; a part of you almost want him to asphyxiate with your tongue down his throat. You feel the pressure building behind your balls and almost choke trying not to scream as you latch onto his bicep with your teeth and bite him until you both shout.

And then it’s over, just as suddenly as it started. Holding to each other you both sink to your knees on the floor in a gentle free fall.

For a long time, nothing happens.

Finally Severus recovers first and hauls you up. He helps you to adjust your spectacles, and then says quietly; ‘This must never happen again.’

His ready admission of what’s between you simultaneously expands your chest and crushes it. You nod dumbly, frozen to the bone with an overwhelming sense of loss as you watch him slip out of the room.

Silly, really.

You never had him to begin with.

 

*
    
    
      
    
    
    
      
    

At breakfast on the 19th of December, the news that the Dark Lord has left London for Prague is received with cheers when the headmistress announces it.

Everyone mills around and makes jokes about the enemy being frightened off by Yuletide Spirit. Ron thumps you on the back and envisage that you can come looking for him a great deal more now that you don’t have to hole up so much with Poppy. You unfurl your best smiles for the crowd, but as happy as you are at this development, you’re more disgruntled by the fact that Snape must have dropped by- and left- in the middle of the night without your knowing.

You realise that this must be the part where you pick up the pieces and get on with life.

So begins the period of awkward avoidance and painful, self-conscious silences. So begins the hard work of waiting whilst your heart recovers from its broken crush. As more and more patients leave the infirmary you pour all your emotions into Draco, checking for infections, monitoring any swells and oozing, even combing his hair.

One day you look up to find him watching you through a teary film of white haze in his eyes. Draco is for all his suffering, a patient who seldom cries, although he often moans incoherently, sometimes for hours.

Poppy comes by for an examination and explains that between the lacerations of the cornea and the impacted tear-ducts, leukoma; a dense white opacity that covers the eye, is a common occurrence, and a permanent one.

She squeezes your arm in sympathy, while you hold on to the back of a chair with both hands, breathing through your runaway train-wreck of emotions and willing it to settle.

This is the night you bugger all and look for Ron to confess all the times you’ve lied to him about what you do and who you treat. He looks betrayed, then hurt, but when you tell him that Draco’s eyesight is going the same way as Hermione’s and you’re _useless_ , you can’t do anything- he grips you by the shoulders and propels you to the kitchens, where you find yourself force-fed with emergency rations of beef jerky and some sort of rehydrated creamy pasta.

It is the best meal you’ve had in _years_ , but you still glare at your best friend when he has the audacity to drop desserts on your plate.  ‘This isn’t an emergency, you idiot.’

‘Do you see any nasty potions and syringes around? Whose domain is this then- wait, its _mine_. Now shut up Potter, and eat your chocolate pudding.’

You decide that it’s prudent to do as you’re told, and end up licking the sauce off the plate, although as you wipe your mouth on your shirtsleeves you start to think that if anyone deserves chocolate pudding its Draco, who would likely never taste it again.

Your eyes start to prickle. Ron lets you snivel on for a bit, until you’re finally ready to listen.

‘Do you remember how I was, after Hermione went and did what she did?’

‘Ron, you don’t have to-‘

‘Shut up and listen mate, because you need to hear this. When ‘Moine-‘

Your best friend suddenly jumps to his feet and walk in random circles, swinging his arms as if getting ready to make a sprint. Your mouth floods with regret for putting him through the memories.

‘When Hermione left, I was _so_ angry. I mean you know how angry I was, you were there; and I don’t think McG’s ever forgiven me for punching Nigel Wolpert in the face.’

‘At least he doesn’t follow you around anymore.’

Ron lets out a shaky laugh. ‘True. Should’ve done it back in Hogwarts. Anyways after ‘Moine left, I had no directive, no idea how to pick a path, you know, and just… _walk_. My plan had always been to follow her, and to some extent you. So I- I needed something new in my life that was fixed. And that’s when you took me up to the silo.’

You stare at him in surprise, mouth open as your usually undemonstrative friend clasps your hand with his. ‘You’re a _healer_ , Harry. A healer of the best sort, because you fix what’s…  _inside_. You don’t see how many people you’ve touched; you can’t. But I do. Don’t give up on yourself. Just fix your sights on the night sky whenever you get lost. That’s that you taught me to do.’

*

 
    
    
      _Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,_
    
    
    
      _And yet methinks I have astronomy;_
    
    
    
      _But not to tell of good or evil luck,_
    
    
    
      _But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,_
    
    
    
      _And, constant stars,_
    
    
    
      _In them I read such art_
    

 

The next day you get fed up of explaining to Draco how the constellations revolve and decide to show him instead. You enlist Ron’s assistance in carrying out your plan to sneak Draco out, and despite admonitions, cajoling and blatant disapproval, your best friend proves his worth in gold by turning up after midnight with a hot flask purloined from the kitchens.

His jaw drops open when he finally comes face to face with Draco, an inevitability you couldn’t have prepared either party for, no matter how many precautions you take. Ron, to your everlasting pride and your own self-reflecting shame gets over his childish resentment much, much faster than you, and as he lifts Draco up while you detach the tubes and drips, your eyes meet in mutual sympathy; and you remember how many people Ron has already lost.

Enough for any one person, to look at an enemy and say _enough -_ enough death. _Enough_ loss.

The wheelchair you’ve prepared is transfigured to accommodate a patient of Hagrid’s girth. Ron settles first, gentle as a feather, and you help arrange Draco on his lap, arms under ribcage, and cover them both with blankets and spells.

‘Are you sure he won’t feel any pain?’ the redhead frets.

 ‘None whatsoever,’ you promise him. Over the course of the day you’ve emptied enough morphine into his drip to ensure that the inevitable discomfort of the trip was tolerable.

You cast the last spell to create a temperature-controlled bubble over the three of you and shove the windows wide open. The wind come rushing in, knocking utensils and blankets to the ground.

Ron shoots you a _‘fail’_ look. ‘Should have cast a Silenco on the floor too, mate.’

‘Oh, har har. I’d just add that to my arsenal of jail-breaking spells then, shall I?’

Ron merely guffaws. ‘Here we go then. Operation See Stars. Although you know if anyone catches sight of us, we’ll be the ones seeing stars.’

You tap the wheelchair and the wheels begin to spin, and then with a whirling noise, extend vertically and begin to hover like a chopper.

‘Dude, that is some awesome bit of enchantment,’ Ron says to you as he whizzes through the window, flying too fast and pretending not to hear your protests. You shrink Draco’s bed, Accio your broomstick with a grin and follow the flying chair to the roof.

After lifting the blond back into his bed and seeing to his comfort, Ron whistles as he examines the firmament ‘Will you just look at that piece of sky? _Everybody’s_ out and dancing tonight. ’

You catch your breath at the sight before you. It’s been an unseasonably cold day, but you now reap the prize of exceptionally clear winter skies. Every single constellation that can be seen is out tonight, sparkling like a distant, mythical city lain out in reverse across the sky.

‘Told you Mother Nature’s a really thorough lady.’

‘I’m going to say hi to Dad and ‘Moine and the rest,’ Ron says diplomatically, and move several feet down the roof. ‘Holler if you finish first.’

You smile at his retreating form, before leaning over the bed and pointing out the constellations to Draco one by one, leaving his namesake for last.

‘See Draco, that your constellation. Its circumpolar star, which is just a fancy word to mean that it never, ever sets. Pretty good choice huh? And it’s one of the oldest named constellations that has survived till this day.’ You place your hands lightly at the side of the mattress, the tips of your fingers brushing. ‘Your parents named you for a star that beat all the odds. You’re going to live forever, Draco.’

The grey eyes blinked up at you, expressing…  you don’t know what, but it makes you feel awkward and sorrowful. Draco’s lips move. You squat in the snow and listen intently to the inaudible whispers that you can’t make any head or tail of, nodding in agreement to everything he says.

In the distance, the bell chimes twelve times as the twenty-second of December came around.

*

 

In return for everything you bestow upon him, Draco teaches you lessons that you will learn in time to grow into and value more than life itself. As the Advent nights slip away one by one, you care for him. You watch his eyes grow quiet.

It breaks your heart.

Things become simple for the dying. Thoughts unknot themselves, as if the mind is finally cognizant of the futility of so many wants and now simply wishes to _be_. The present comes into clean perspective, expressed in simple terms of comfort: I’m hot. I’m cold. Please touch me. Now let me sleep. You take to sleeping in the ward, now that you know your silent company is Draco’s most effective balm.

It is strange, how one realizes that life isn’t an emergency only when you run out of time.

When there’s no past to regret, no future to imagine.

*

It’s one of those nights that falls fast; where the winter night with its long shadows chequer the beds by late afternoon. As darkness falls you light a lamp and make shadow animal on the walls with your fingers, spinning stories about zodiac animals and the myths of eternal life.

 _Naturally_ it follows that the height of this ridicule would be the night Snape chooses to drop by for a visit. Cheeks burning, you wonder how long he had been standing there, watching you affect various falsettos. The man always had atrocious timing.

You walk Snape past the door away from your patient before turning accusing eyes at him. ‘You should have knocked.’

Snape inclines his head in agreement. ‘I should have.’

‘Go on then,’ you push away the curtains to make way for him. ‘He’s been waiting for you.’

Snape lingers for a heartbeat, staring at your blue, gloveless fingers before stepping in. You move away to give them some privacy, rubbing your hands and telling yourself sternly to do a better job of hiding your expressions.

At least it suddenly wasn’t so cold anymore.

Snape doesn’t take very long and startles your daydreams when he comes out to look for you.

‘Harry.’

You turn around, much faster than you really should. It makes you dizzy.

‘Yes, Severus?’

A vague look slips past Snape’s face, hesitant and foreboding, before he glides up to you. You feel your back arch and your heart lurch. Surely, _surely_ you would be able to keep your hands to yourself for one brief conversation, surely-

You try not to gasp to find that it is Snape who voluntarily takes _your_ hands to warm them between his own. His fingers are sticky with some sort of self-heating balm. You see the tip of your fingers gain colour as the clammy, minty sensation of the lotion turn into powder, dry and comforting.

‘Must be nice to be able to make anything you need for yourself,’ you mummer to the floor.

‘Not everything I need,’ Snape says quietly, and your heart fills with terror as he slips two fingers under your chin.

‘Stop me,’ he murmurs into your mouth, which has fallen open in shock.

‘I can’t,’ you confess just as softly in a voice that operates from somewhere between humour and hysteria. ‘I want- I _want-_ ‘

You can’t say it. Instead you let yourself fall forward and slip your face into his neck, ignoring the shocked hiss from Snape. You close your eyes and let your nose roam like a burrowing animal, breathing in the smell of snow and wool and musk, the tension coiled so tightly; ever so tightly around the man like a whiplash.

It’s hard for you to remember to breath, and you wonder where the fire came from, when it had been freezing just moments ago.

‘I need to kiss you,’ you breathe into his neck, his collarbone, his buttons, your eyes still closed. ‘ _Please._ I need to taste your _mouth.’_

‘Folly,’ Snape breathes, but the shudder that rattles through him brings out a breathy chuckle which no doubt makes you sound quite deranged. He pulls your head back and his eyes are moist and hungry, and you realise with a jolt that it’s your mouth he’s looking at.

There is enough electricity between the two of you to power the second floor, and the stress makes you continuously break into nervous laughter, until he grits his teeth at you and growls.

‘What the hell do you find _so funny_ at a time like this?’

 _‘I’m thinking that you might just be the love of my life’_ is something you know immediately not to say.

 Instead you shrug shakily. ‘I dunno. What’d you put in that hand cream, huh?’

 ‘Ginger,’ he tells you solemnly, and you laugh and fall in love with the man a little more, and yet a little more.

‘Whoops. Not catnip then?’ you tap a shaking finger to your nose. ‘My bad. Must be a cold coming.’

‘What am I going to do with you?’ Snape sighs as he wraps his arms around you, and you both press your foreheads against each other and _breathe._

 _A_ nd wait for the madness to pass.

‘Do you think it’d get better?’ you half joke when he finally pulls away so you can both regain some sanity.

‘Probably.’ Snape says with a forbearing tilt to his mouth. ‘A little restraint never went amiss.’

You make a face. ‘Well. I suppose I’ll be building a lot of character then. Yay. ’

Snape laughs. You love his laugh. You love- _Him_.

‘I aim to please,’ you say with a blush.

‘You are a lot more- to many- than mere pleasantness, Harry.’ Snap assures him gravely just before he turns to leave.

‘Severus-‘

You lean against the doorframe, exhausted, light headed, weighed down by cares you cannot begin to name.

‘Bring Narcissa with you the next time.’

You watch him nod and disappear into the shadows, carrying your heart.

 

*

_I'm delighted to see you_

_old friend._

_You were the first person_

_my son was to meet in the heavens._

_If he were awake, he'd say._

_"Look, Daddy, there's Old-Ryan!"_

_but I won't wake him._

_He’s mine for the weekend,_

_Old-Ryan, not yours._

 

The cloaked figure that follows Severus into Minerva’s chambers is not Narcissa Malfoy, and as soon as Lucius pulls off his hood your accusing gaze shoots straight to Snape.

‘I swore a blood oath,’ is all he says by way of explanation.

For his part, Malfoy looks as taken aback as you feel, although he covers it better by sneering forebodingly at you.

Snape hesitates just before the curtains of Draco’s bed, and then draws away.

‘It is better if I remain outside to guard the corridors. Harry’s company will be sufficient for your needs.’

The two Death Eaters turn to look at you, and the unreal feeling of standing between two men that the world labels as monsters sink in – to be replaced by the equally surreal knowledge that although you don’t feel comfortable, you also do not feel in danger of your life.

You can feel Malfoy’s suspicion and hostility training on you like a tractor beam; the tremors of restraint running through the Death Eater’s wand arm.

Trying not to roll your eyes, you snap, ‘I’m too valuable to use as bait, even for _you_ , Malfoy.’

‘That’s enough,’ Snape’s warning lashed through the air. To Lucius he speaks with a tempered, if stiff formality; ‘You have one hour, Lucius. It’s best you prepare yourself per my advisement.’

Malfoy nods, pale as a ghost. He is a large man with strong shoulders and power enough to snap your neck with deed or spell; a jarring contrast after weeks tending to his son’s slender frame and helplessness.

 ‘My son,’ Malfoy says in a ragged voice as you draw the curtains away. He approaches the bed as a convict would for judgement. ‘It cannot be. It _cannot_ be. _Draco.’_

You move swiftly between Malfoy and your charge. ‘I’m sorry, but you cannot touch him. These are magical burns-‘

_You would know, because you’ve inflicted them often enough onto others, Death Eater bastard_

‘-and there’s simply too much exposed nerves and skin, so-‘

_It should be you trading places with Draco_

‘- any risk of infections may quickly prove fatal.’

_You’re not fit to be human, much less somebody’s father_

Malfoy stands there and looks as if you have torn his black heart out with your words, and you feel a sick sort of satisfaction. You’d spit at the man, attack him with your bare fists, had Draco not made a wet noise in his throat and your nursing instincts took over.

As you see to his comfort Draco wriggles his fingers and his eyes rest not on his father, but beseechingly on you.

‘Draco,’ you whisper as your fingertips lie against his and he moans in answer. ‘Your father is here. He’s here to see you, because h-he-‘

_You’ve killed you own son_

 ‘Because he misses you very much.’

_Just like you’ve killed the sons and daughters of so many_

‘He’s here to tell you how important you are to him, Draco. Just like you’re important to me.’

_I hope you suffer. I hope you suffer this day for years to come_

‘Will you speak to him? He’s right beside me now, Draco.’

_I hope the guilt eats you alive a little more each time you shatter_

‘And I know there must be so many things he wants to say, like how he’s just waiting to take you home this instant, to-’

 _‘Wiltshire,_ ’ the father sudden says.

‘Wiltshire,’ you echo, meeting the eyes of Lucius Malfoy without hate for the first time in your life.

After that you reassuringly rub the tips of Draco’s hands and with great reluctance, show Malfoy how to do it without inflicting pain on his son. You watch Malfoy join fingertips with son and speak. About the manor and its idyllic life, about the Scottish deerhounds; Abbey and Flax, who misses Draco so much, about the yew bush on the lawn that Lucius carved into the shape of a dragon on the day of Draco’s birth. He even spoke about Salisbury cathedral, where they used to visit at Christmas; disguised at muggles when Draco was a child. It’s a tradition he intends to revive when the war is over and they can all go home together, if only Draco would get better.

Finally and with great reluctance he draws his hands away and say with great tenderness, ‘You mother has a message for you, son. She wanted very much to come, but one of us had to stay behind for-.’

You are relieved he doesn’t finish his sentence.

 Malfoy produces a charmed device from his robes and place it on the floor. Activated by wand, you watch Narcissa’s visage blinked into view. Her hair is pulled back into a severe bun, and she had clearly been crying. 

‘My Draco, my darling.’

Draco makes a plaintive noise and tries to move; his milky, unseeing eyes blankly searching.

‘Oh, my precious son,’ Narcissa smiles onto the bed with a tenderness that makes your throat hurt. ‘I’m _so_ glad to see you, even if it is only from here. And I’m so sorry my darling, that only one of us can be with you tonight.’

Her pale face hardens. ‘And it has to be your father _,_ to seewhat he has _done.’_

Despite trying to keep your gaze averted, your eyes are drawn involuntarily to the sight of Lucius Malfoy flinching against the knife-twist of his wife’s words.

Draco moans at this.

‘Don’t fret my darling, we will be together soon. I only wanted to see you, to tell you how much I miss the three of us together.  You are _our son_. Whatever comes to be in this world, you will always be loved and supported. We love you, my Draco.’

The picture of Narcissa begun to blur as she stifles a sob. ‘Farewell my son. But only for a while. Only for a w-‘

Draco wails as the vision blinks away, a cry of grief and loss that shreds your nerves and wrings fresh tears from your eyes.  Throat burning, you look to Malfoy to continue, but the man looks half eaten away with pain and disbelief.  You watch as he stands over the bed like a fallen angel, carved from marble, frozen and unfeeling.

Then just when you think he’d never make a sound, you hear Malfoy whisper:

_‘I’ve failed you.’_

As it inevitably must, the storm finally breaks, and you see Lucius Malfoy kneeling on the cold floor with his hands in his face as he chokes on his sobs.

‘Forgive me, Draco. Forgive your foolish father _._ Forgive me. _Forgive me._ Give me another chance.’

You fold your head over your knees and close your eyes.  Anything to give them the privacy they deserve. The sound of a proud man breaking is the most painful thing you have ever heard in your life, and you have heard it far too many times already.

You press your head as close to your body as you can, rocking into your own wounds, your own sorrows: until finally the storm subsides, and the cavity of your chest is lightened. Until finally, your mind begins to quiet, and the very act of breathing suddenly becomes a fragile, sacred thing.

You wipe your eyes and look up to see Lucius press his lips to the remaining few wisps of Draco’s once glossy crown, pausing to blow on them like you used to do.

Draco makes an appreciative whine, and the father smiles down to the child with an affection that even you, who refuses to see such things in a man like Lucius must acknowledge and recognise.

‘You have always been the most beautiful boy to me, Draco; the brightest star, and you will _neve_ r be replaced,’ the father whispers over his son’s sleeping form. ‘My son. My son _._ Oh, my _son._ ’

After the Death Eaters leave with barely a look at you, you sit beside the bed to keep your usual vigil, and gaze at the sleeping figure beside you. Trying to remember everything, because now Draco is beautiful to you. Your eyes caress his blackened flesh with love, find wildly beautiful the faint pulse beating upon his skin, the slow rise and fall of his chest.

You recall something Hermione quoted at you once when you visited her in a bed very similar to this some years ago. She’d been a great one for quoting, after she lost her eyes.

Love is what is left after everything else had been burned away.

*

Draco passes away quietly in the early hours of Christmas Eve. His face is peaceful as he slips into eternal sleep. You hold his hand, grateful that you didn’t have to close his eyes for him; silently you thank him for the days he has given you.

You inform no one of this development until McGonagall wonders in to find you thus a few hours later and runs out of the room to firecall Snape.

An hour later, Lucius Malfoy comes into the chambers and sits on the bed beside you, to do what he could not do last night: cradle his son in his arms and rock the body against him, their faces touching. You are surprise to see hear him hum softly to himself; a mellow, transcendent sort of song that sounds almost like a hymn-

-suddenly you recognise this song, and you know what Draco had been trying to do those last few days in your presence.

He had been trying to sing. Perhaps even to teach you the tune, so that his father would know you had been friends.

Your eyes meet Malfoy’s; the man you’ve hated for most of your life; perhaps hated even more than Voldemort- who at least is driven by insanity rather than cold-blooded greed.

You will never understand this man’s motives. But with all your recent lessons echoing in your mind, you think you can understand the nature of his loss. And this is the bridge between him and you that cross, so you tune your voice to his, and hum along. It is indeed an old hymn that your aunt used to sing every year, and perhaps you might have heard Fleur once, singing to Bill.

You find it fitting, to join your nemesis in song. It is after all, Christmas Eve.

After that you help Malfoy lift the body of his son in his arms, arranging, covering, and spelling where dignity dictates.

‘Thank you,’ Lucius says as you step away. He doesn’t look at you. His eyes are fixed on Draco’s sleeping face.

You hold the curtains open as Lucius carries his only son out, past the corridors of Order members who file after him, out of the door and towards the open field.

You walk along with the others; both students and adults who exclaim in surprise to see Voldemort’s first lieutenant being escorted through the grounds by a line of Order members. McGonagall leads on the right. You wish you could tell her it would be all right.

Ron catches up with you in the kerfuffle and forces you to keep up your dazed shuffle with him; which is to say he basically grabs your arm and drags you through the snow to the edge of grounds where a snow covered field of stretch before you; vast and unprotected.

The No Man’s Land between your own barracks, and _theirs._

McGonagall makes a slashing motion with her wand, and the Order members abruptly turn around to restraint their own people from moving forward. You soon see why, for a heartbeat later, from out of the coverage of Yew trees a dark line moved across the horizon. 

A line of Death Eaters.

You watch as Bellatrix push herself forward to taunt and purr at the sight of Lucius’s approach.

 _‘Awww_ , did ouh little baby die at the hands of those wee murdering nursemaids? Quickly, we must avenge him!’

You see Narcissa step out of the line. Lucius continues to walk, carrying his son – as unheeding of the mounting tension on either side as if he existed in another world.

‘Sister, my husband simply wishes to bring our _son_ home.’

‘But my nephew is _dead_ , is he not? He has given his life in the Dark Lord’s service; what higher honour is there?’

You watch the mad woman turn to her people. ‘Death Eaters! On this historical day, in one fell swoop, we shall eliminate our enemies,’ Bellatrix crowed. ‘Now that my nephew’s valiant sacrifice has flushed out all our Lord’s enemies from the sewers-‘

You and countless others grit your teeth and finger your wand as Bellatrix screeches and claps-

-and suddenly falls.

Narcissa Malfoy stands behind her, her wand still smoking a toxic green.

‘That you survived this long at all is because I protected and spared you, Bella. But you did not spare me. And nobody has spared my son.’ Even across the field her voice carried to you.

For a long moment, nobody moves or speaks from the shock. Even Lucius has come to a halt, standing uncertainly in the middle of No Man’s Land with the future of the entire Malfoy lineage vulnerable before him.

Narcissa turns to look at her husband, her wand arm drawn and her mouth forming stillborn words, as if unsure what she had done. Her hand gradually raises to her throat as she takes a few faltering steps towards her husband, leaving herself both unprotected and divorced from either sides of the war. You watch Lucius nodding at his wife as she continues to move unsteadily forward to stand alone and away from the Death Eaters– her every step a gesture that rang with both grief and defiance. A gentle snow begin to fall over the field, light as cotton. Then-

To your shock it is Ron, dear, precious Ron, who ends the deadlock and break out of rank, to the furious hisses from both sides.

He brushes your arm away as you try to pull him back, and you can see Ron screwing up his courage, is reminded of the thirteen year old boy who played chess against the ancient magic of Hogwarts in your first year and won.

Ron’s baritone is quite frankly, horrible. But his voice is strong and true as he begun the first bars of his song. 

_‘Should all acquaintance be forgot_

_And never brought to mind?_

_Should all acquaintance be forgot_

_And auld lang syne?’_

It has always been too easy to underestimate Ronald. In shame, your arm falls dumbly to your sides and you step out to stand beside your friend, adding your voice to his. From the corner of your eye you see other figures do the same; hear Seamus’ Irish lilt adding to the growing complexities.

Somebody steps forward from the opposite line. Then three.

It is Parkinson, accompanied by her parents. She wipes her eyes, straightens her back, and opens her mouth to sing. A moment later, Goyle ambles up beside her, ignoring his father’s orders to stand down. For the first time, you notice that Crabbe is not in the line, and realise that like you, this hymn is for more than one.

It is for everyone. It is for all the stars that ever lit up the sky, all that came and went. That lived and died.

As Lucius begins to move again under the cover of a gentle snow, the hymn swells, is carried and returned from both sides. Its melody echoes amongst the trees, rides upon the breeze.

_For auld lang syne, my jo_

_For auld lang syne_

_We’ll take a cup of kindness yet,_

_For auld lang syne._

You see that the ones who step out from the other side are mostly students, some of them people you’re studied with; and some accompanied reluctantly by their parents. Peregrine Derrick had an ugly, vicious face but a voice that carries notes like solitary flute across the moors. Lucian Bole had the range of a professional tenor, and from the look on his face, this was something he was only just discovering.

Narcissa, standing alone; her hair whipping up the air. Her voice is low and stately, like a deceptively calm river.

Your eyes meet, and you wish you could tell her she has a beautiful voice.

She nods once, as if she heard you.

 

*

 
    
    
      _We will come down at night to these resounding beaches_
    

_And the long gentle thunder of the sea,_

_Here for a single hour in the wide starlight_

_We shall be happy, for the dead are free._

It is Christmas.

Downstairs, you find the atmosphere subdued and uncertain. Only Ron, who has been handing out dried biscuits for breakfast, greats you with a grin.

‘Merry Xmas mate! There you go, finest brand of yucky flour crackers; you can thank me later. Cackle and snap!’

Sometimes you think Ron tries too hard to fill in for all of his missing siblings.

‘Thank you. You have the most atrocious comedy timing ever.’

‘Blimey, Harry lighten up. You’re beginning to sound more and more like greasy bastard by the day,’ Ron tells you in that irritatingly breezy way of his, and obligingly thumps you on the back as you choke on your crackers. ‘ _Oh look_ , there’s Snape now. Speak of the devil, and he appears.’

You follow Ron’s gaze till your eyes meet _his._ It is indeed Snape, who somehow manages to find your heart in the middle of a crowd and pull it to him like a heat-seeking missile, like the North Point and home. Severus, whose life you have feared for and prayed for under every star as rumours spread like wildfire about the sudden insurgency within Death Eater ranks yesterday night. Rumours of Death Eaters turning on each other. Dying.

You hadn’t listened to any of them. You _couldn’t._

At the front of the hall, voices are raised, one of them Snape’s. You can’t see anything. The crowd starts to murmur and jostle against you as you fight your way forward to _him_ ; you simply have to reach _him_ -

You push past the final shoulder and stare at Snape, into his grimy face and exhausted eyes, the hands he has placed on the shoulders of two young girls you vaguely recognise, drawing them close to him. You see people trickling in, some of them injured. Many walk in levitating cartons. All of them wear Death Eater robes and look as if they had lived in them for days.

Amongst the cartons, you raise your eyebrows at the wheelbarrows of.. .vegetables and poultry.

Ron, at least, would be pleased.

McGonagall casts a Sonorous charm upon the hall as Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy brings up the rear of absconding Death Eaters. They stand uncertainly in the centre, pressing close to each other, looking around them as if they come from another country, speak a different language.

They were Death Eaters, and you’ve hated and feared them for years.

They were Death Eaters, yet they looked- _lost_.

‘Members of the Order, we have a wonderful request, one I am honoured to receive. As of this morning more than half of Voldermort’s forces have deserted his quest. The _better_ half. Now they, and us your teachers ask you; on this day that will surely go down the memories of generations to come; if you will make space for them and help them with such adjustments as required? ‘

The headmistress’s eyes search the mute crowd before her. ‘Would anyone like to speak?’

‘I will,’ Nacissa Malfoy steps out of her small band as regally as one holding court, effortlessly capturing all attention. ‘During the war, many supply points failed you because most of them were in my husband’s pockets. But if you will have us, then you gain resources once used to advance another’s cause.’

‘Why should we trust you?’ somebody jeers from the crowd.

‘You shouldn’t.’ Narcissa’s voice piercing. ‘Just as _we_ shouldn’t trust _you_. But we didn’t come here for your mercy. We come here to put an end to this war becau- because-‘ her voice cracks, and she turns to her husband.

‘Because if we continue, there will soon be nothing left to fight for,’ Lucius finishes bleakly for his wife. ‘There will be no _pureblood_ victory; the only victor will be Voldemort. And this is not why we joined him. ’

‘Order members, the floor is yours. Do you say yea or nay?’

The hall abruptly falls silent, each group staring at the other through a seemingly impossible divide.

Throughout your life you have seen them; moments where the balance that hangs between one outcome and another is so fragile that a small breeze could topple it.

You gaze across at the band of deserters and pick out so many faces you know. Pansy stands to Narcissa’s right, looking defiant and afraid, and you see an expression of your aunt’s in her; the shape of the woman she might become.

Suddenly, you realise that it always starts the same way; with fear that goes unchecked that one day lead to anger and pain. You look at Pansy, her hands clasped tightly in Narcissa’s and the marked absence of her parents, and you realise she had loved Draco.

Here you are on the train again, with Malfoy’s hand held up to you, asking for _connection_ \- only today, the only question that you ask yourself is what you can build together, if nobody draws a line and there are no sides.

You clear your throat and shout: ‘I find this act of unspeakable bravery deserves a _yea_.’

Quickly the voices pipe up one by one.

‘Yea!’

‘Yea,’

‘Yea dammit, they brought food!’ says an aggressive voice somewhere back and the hall breaks into laughter. The crowd begin to break, groups and line erasing as people come forward to examine supplies, speak, and identify lost friends.

‘If Albus was alive to see this-‘ McGonagall chokes, and you swear you see Snape rolling his eyes.

*

Ron seeks you out at the celebrations with a look and a nudge, and ten minutes later, you find yourself climbing the silo roof again.

‘I thought you’d be eating yourself into a stupor,’ you tell him.

‘Mmm. Already did. I had roast chicken, tikka chicken, chicken pot pie, the turkey with those orange slices-‘

‘Didn’t you bring me any?’

Ron burps. Loudly.

‘You suck,’ I inform him; very nicely of course.

Ron’s stomach is too happy to take offense. ‘Reckon we’ll win the war now, eh?’

‘Voldemort is still at large,’ you say glumly.

‘Aw, not for long, methinks,’ Ron says, stretching on the roof like a cat after a big meal. ‘I’ve been eavesdropping on the Order Meetings with Fred’s old Extendable Ears. Or rather, the Order’s Hail-And-Welcome-Death-Eaters-With-Food’ meeting.’

Your eyes flatten. ‘You had Extendable Ears with you all this while, and never said a thing-’

‘Don’t get prissy; I never used them till today. Heirloom and all, you understand. Anyways they were all in McG’s room talking to the Minister through the fireplace; _both_ Muggle _and_ Magic; and Lucius was singing like a canary. He really loved his son, huh.’

‘What did Malfoy say?’

Ron’s grin turned evil. ‘Only that he knew the exact coordinates where Voldie was, right down to the wards and the number of chairs in the room. And get this, it’s a Muggle hotel near St. Vitus cathedral. He must have thought that nobody would have expected that. They were working out the international extradition issues when I left.’

‘So what now? Another waiting game?’

Ron shrugs. ‘I expect so. But we have food and nobody’s life is on the line except the bad guys-‘

And Snape, you have no doubt. A man as bloody-minded as him simply wouldn’t be the sort to rest until every loose end was tied up to his satisfaction.

Ron nudges him. ‘Hey soursop, the battle’s moved away for now. It might or might not come back, but for now there’s no harm in a bit of rest.’ 

You rub your hands and stare at the freewheeling skies about you. ‘I’m not sure if I’m strong enough to do this – go on and on indefinitely like this. No matter what the stupid prophecy says. If anything, it’s going to be Malfoy who’s ultimately responsible for bringing Voldemort down.’

Ron looks at you as if he despaired of ever finding an iota of common sense within you.

‘You _did_ defeat Snake Eyes, you daft prick. Maybe without a sword, and maybe you didn’t die or get your foot hacked off in glorious battle or something, but truth is, the war wouldn’t have ended if you didn’t do what you did with Draco and his father. Mate, you made the Death Eater’s turn on each other. From _within!_ Nobody from our side lifted a finger. How many lives do you think you saved?’

‘You’re just being daft.’

Ron looks at you like you’re all of five years old, and you squirm beneath the knowing weight of his gaze. Somewhere along the line without the both of you noticing, he’d grown into his own.
    
    
    ‘Ok. Look at it this way. We’re the survivors, Harry. _Us_ , not somebody else. Sooner or later we’re going to have to admit that maybe we were not only lucky. Maybe we survived because we had... something else. I don’t know what that something else is, but when I look at you _I see it_. I see it in me too. Hermione was strong, on the outside. She was always two steps in front, dragging me behind. But once she lost her eyesight…‘ Ron’s voice soured. 
    
    
    ‘She didn’t have to walk off that ledge, Harry. And my ‘da was strong too, but he didn’t have to be everybody’s hero and wear himself so thin his mind stopped being sharp enough to watch out for himself.’
    
    
    He peers at you from the corner of his eyes. ‘You and me, we have a different kind of strength.’
    
    
    ‘Survivors,’ you say the word, tracing its shape in your mouth. 
    
    
    ‘Yep. And if you’ve got it Harry, if you’ve been given this torch then run with it. Don’t just stand there looking at the stars. They’re only here to guide us and help us remember things. The rest… it’s _us_. _It’s just us_.  You’re under onus to live, if only on behalf of all the other who couldn’t. Might as well have a good time.’ You watch the lanky red-head stand and brush his trousers. 
    
    
    ‘Where are you going?’
    
    
    ‘Me? I’m going to the pub for darts. But if you need company, I reckon you know just where to find another survivor to hang out with,’ Ron grins over his shoulder. ‘Better catch him before he leaves.’ 
    
    
    You look at your long-time friend, whose heart is so gentle and so strong; and whose wisdom whilst not as erudite as many page-turning heroes of the day, is earthly and profound. You find yourself humbled by all he is and the difference that he has chosen to make.
    
    
    Above all you are humbled that this person choses to call you _friend._
    
    
    After Ron has left, you glance up at the sky, silently seeking help from the Lodestar. For long moments  you stand stubbornly in the freezing cold with your teeth chattering, staring at the North Star, willing it to show you the answers you so desperately need-

Then you see Draco spiralling through the skies, and you think of the centring of self you have been looking for all these years with your head in the sky. This time you look down, and you see your own two feet; the ones that had carried you here to this rooftop – and suddenly everything becomes simple again.

Sometimes finding a centre means looking out in the dark and high up as you can, and not at the feet that carry you. Finding a guiding light to follow above all the chaos and noise

And sometimes, you use the skies as a guide so you could look _down_ and find your place here, on the ground.

Within minutes, you are back at the party, scanning the crowd for Snape’s stiff shoulders and untidy hair. You watch him murmur something to Lucius and through the corridors slip out of sight, and dare yourself to follow him- only to find that you’ve lost him.

‘Professor Snape! Professor!’

You twirl around the premises like a dervish, and finally locate him. The man is an exasperatingly fast walker. Suddenly he is miles ahead, and you shout into the wind.

‘Severus, stop!’

He finally turns around and sees you running, shouting for him with the breath rattling your lungs and leaking fog like a broken pipe. Even from that distance you can see the look of fear upon his face.

When you finally catch up with him you know you look a sight. You don’t care.

‘Severus, where’re you going?’

‘To pack,’ he says succinctly as you fall into step with him.

‘For Prague,’ you say, and the man finally stops and whips around to glare at you.

‘Will you _never_ cease to poke your nose where they don’t belong, you idiot _child?’_

‘Probably not,’ you reply undaunted. ‘Can I send you off? When will you be coming back?’

Snape stares at you, his cloak whipping out behind him. You meet his eyes with everything you have, and he quickly breaks the gaze.

‘There is nothing for me here. No reason to return.’

Gingerly you take a step closer. ‘Whatever you have done, you will be acquitted for sure.’

A patient sigh escapes the thin lips. ‘Exonerated, yes, and universally loathed. Not exactly the pastoral ending I’d envisioned.’

You brace your feet and tell yourself to hang on for all your worth, that you won’t let what you have be blown away. ‘You’d have me.’

He folds his arms and looks at you, and you know you have one chance, and only one chance to persuade him to stay.

‘I don’t love you,’ you stammer to the buttons on his chest. ‘Nobody can-‘

_‘Potter-‘_

‘-in such a short time.’

Snape exhales impatiently, and you lick your lips and hurry on.

‘I can’t say I… know… what can come out of such… circumstance between two people. I wouldn’t know what this would look like under the normal light of day. I don’t dare…I don’t _dare_ to say I love you now. But I think I might, if you gave me the chance. So please-‘

You stand on tiptoes and quickly press a kiss on Snape’s nose before he has the chance to react.

‘I’d like you to give me a chance.’

He looks about him, fidgety, refusing to meet your eyes. ‘You are so young.’

‘But… I’m strong enough. At least, strong enough to ask you to- _stay_. That is…’ you tongue slips into the formality with surprising ease, ‘I would be honoured, if you would- stay.’

Finally Snape speaks with his eyes closed, as if every word was costing him something vital. ‘Harry, you have come to be immensely… _attractive,_ to me.  I am a… fool to admit it, but a liar to deny it… If this… _this folly_ , is truly what you seek-‘

‘Yes,’ you interrupt, stepping into his space. ‘Yes. _Yes._ With all my heart.’

In the distance, a church bell chimed twelve times. Snape stares down at you, and he doesn’t look like a man in love. In fact, he looks like he wants to throttle you.

You think of Draco, of Cho, of the impending end-of-war that neither could live to see. You think of Pansy, her white hands clutching at the last link she had to Draco through his parents. She would have given her soul to trade places with you those last few days beside the boy she loved. Instead the privilege had been placed in your hands.

In _your_ hands.

You reach out an arm, and with a gentleness only recently learnt, place your palm over Snape’s heart.

‘Perhaps… if it helps… you could think of me as a room? A place to take off your masks, if only for a minute.’

Snape merely blinks, although his fingers come up to clasp yours, and you can tell your words had affected him by the sudden hike of his chest beneath your hand.

‘Be certain of your desire,’ is all he finally says.

You nod slowly, knowing that this is the biggest decision you have ever made in your life; but knowing also with absolutely certainly that someday you will look back and know it for your best.

‘Come then,’ Snape says, and moves ahead, trusting you to follow.

Smiling, you look up, and the last thing you see before ducking through the doors is the constellation Draco, clear and eternal and _free,_ spiralling joyously against the night sky.

 

 

 

_I will love the light for it shows me the way,_

_Yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars_

_\- Og Mandino_

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 2: This story was written for Asecretchord, whos my giftee for the Snarry Swap Fest on LJ over Xmas2012. I;m thankful to the Snape Potter group on LJ which is a wonderful snarry community and organised such wonderful fic exchanges for us writers & artists. 
> 
> Contained within the preceding story was the shape of my heart, and I hope it did for my readers as much as it did for me. Merry Xmas 2012, and may the stars watch over you always.
> 
>  
> 
> *Poetry, in order of appearance:
> 
> ‘All are not taken…’ from Consolation, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
> 
> ‘And now, each night I count the stars…’ from Preface to a Twenty Volume Suicide, by Amiri Baraka
> 
> ‘I was a maiden in this versicolor plain…’ from Tender Mercies, by DA Powell
> 
> ‘We swim to God…’ from Constellations, by Jinen Jason Shulman
> 
> ‘I wish I could remember that first day…’ from Monna Innominata, by Christina Rossetti
> 
> ‘Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck…’ from Sonnet 14, by William Shakespeare
> 
> ‘I'm delighted to see you…’ from The Constellation Orion, by Ted Kooser
> 
> ‘Auld Lang Sign’, a Scottish carol and poem by Robert Burns
> 
>  
> 
> *Art, in order of appearance:
> 
> Portrait of Severus Snape by Roussal.
> 
> The constellation Draco and others used in my research for the story, from The Uranographia of Johaan Bode (1801).


End file.
